I think I may have mentioned a passion for cycling at some point in this saga. It’s something that goes back a long way, with short interruptions for loveless dalliances with motorcycles, Ford Anglias and utes. Like the archetypical beardy hipster, I’m claiming I was into it before it was trendy.

The thing is, it’s just such a great way of refreshing the mind — like a certain brand of lager used to claim, it reaches the parts others don’t. And like another brand of lager used to say, it’s also reassuringly expensive. But for those invested in sustainability, it’s a serious option for getting about without adding to the planet’s woes.

I’m wary of people who evangelise about their health and fitness regimes — just as long as they have one. That’s not what this is about. Then there are what’s known on the interwebs as the haters — those who ascribe all kinds of crimes to cyclists, from running red lights to smugness. Let’s not litigate that here. I’m not likely to change your mind and you certainly won’t change mine. In fact, it’s almost worth a new commandment.

So yesterday dawned bright and dry, with everything in place for a ride and no excuses not to. The iron entered my soul – today would be the day. The route was set, the die were cast. But what to wear? How to carry stuff?

Getting started involved a surprising amount of faffing about: lubing the chain, digging out thermal base layers, pumping up pappy tyres. There was pre-ride nutrition and on-ride nutrition (a banana) and hydration. I packed a compact camera. A warm hoodie in case I got stranded. Lights. Multitool. Puncture kit. Waterbottle. Mobile phone.

Then, because in this always-connected world it hasn’t happened if it’s not digitally measured and recorded, my vintage GPS unit had to acquire a satellite. Frankly I wouldn’t mind if it just borrowed it, but that’s the technical term.

Finally it was go! I cast off and clipped in. And immediately that exhilarating sensation of near-flight: quiet, easy, the bike instantly responsive to the slightest pedal input. Up the hill to the digger on his plinth and into Little River Road – flying through the rushing air, every synapse awakened and firing. Beautiful!

Five minutes later, it was all sweat, gasping, burning lungs, wobbly knees. The GPS said four kilometres, but it felt like the ride was over already. It was time to stop and take stock. And let the old heart rate sink to a sustainable level. And slurp some energy drink.

When things had calmed down a bit, I set out again at a more moderate speed, aiming for a balance between a soaring heart rate and discernible forward progress. This was good for actually taking in the passing scenery, which was beautiful: clean-washed from the recent rain, with sheep and cattle regarding my progress ruminatively; rabbits scooting from tussock to tree; magpies and rooks circling and harshly calling. I crossed gurgling streams and burbling brooks under a limpid sky studded with snowy fluffy cloudlets, reflected again in glassy-still ponds.

The last three kilometres involved an exhilarating long downhill between overhanging trees, which generated sufficient speed to bring tears to my eyes. Just as we reached terminal velocity on the way down, I heard a soft fruity thump as my banana loosed its bonds and fell to the tarmac, irrecoverable without sacrificing that glorious freewheeling velocity.

This was sufficient to carry me over the narrow, rough wooden bridge over Tantulean Creek – a second of teeth-rattling vibration – before the long corresponding climb on the other side which had me whimpering like a puppy in a thunderstorm as I spun in the lowest possible gear. At the top of this hill was the spot where consumption of the banana was scheduled (had it survived) and I could rest, stretch, and drink convulsively from my bottle.

That was half-way.

I draw a veil over the return journey, which was purely a matter of survival: slow, tear-stained and littered with prayers to make it stop. Someone (Eddy Merckx) once said that cycling is all about suffering — a ‘go big or go home’ attitude which is well and good in the Tour de France but slightly ridiculous on a weekend ride with 50-plus-year-old financial advisors and management consultants.

But there’s a kernel of something there. I’m not really bothered with competing: what’s really compelling about submitting to the burning lungs and legs is what you learn about yourself. Once you accept the discomfort by refusing to give up, the question presents itself: just what can I do?  The sky – dappled with its snowy fluffy cloudlets – is the limit.

But of course, the greatest feeling of all is when you really do stop. After a little rehydration, a hot shower and a square meal, the endorphins oozing through the circulatory system made it all feel worthwhile – such warm and fuzzy wellbeing must be the reward for some spectacular effort.

I’ll need to do it again – over and over – to really reap the benefits. But the first is always the worst, so right now I’m choosing to believe it’s all going to be downhill from here.